


The Mourning Star

by VoidGhost



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Armageddon, Crowley is Satan (Good Omens), First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Secret Identity, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 11:03:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21243047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidGhost/pseuds/VoidGhost
Summary: Back before the Creation of Man, before the Garden, there was the Fall.The Fall was lead by Lucifer, the First of the Fallen, God’s Favorite, King of Hell, and is destined to spawn the Destroyer of Mankind.Thinking back to these events, Crowley sighs. He was so productive back then. What happened?(Of course he knew what happened. A little angel happened. Was it in God’s Ineffable Plan that a measly Principality would one day have the Devil himself wrapped around his pinky finger?)(Perhaps so.)





	The Mourning Star

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a long time coming!   
My Halloween fic, featuring the ineffable husbands.   
Hope ya'll enjoy!!!

Back before the Creation of Man, before the Garden, there was the Fall. 

The Fall was lead by Lucifer, the First of the Fallen, God’s Favorite, King of Hell, and is destined to spawn the Destroyer of Mankind. 

Thinking back to these events, Crowley sighs. He was so productive back then. What happened?

(Of course he knew what happened. A little angel happened. Was it in God’s Ineffable Plan that a measly Principality would one day have the Devil himself wrapped around his pinky finger?)

(Perhaps so.)

The worst part might be that this little angel didn’t even know. Crowley meant to tell him, of course. It just….never happened. 

Aziraphale was kind enough to use his wing and shield Crowley from the rain at the same moment they met. It was the first act of kindness he experienced since he last felt his Mother’s warmth. It was the first since the Fall. 

The obedience the other demons in Hell give him do not count. That was born out of fear. It came with the job: he’s  _ the _ Devil. He’s capable of many terrifying things. 

(In theory, but they don't have to know that. In reality, his bark is worse than his bite.)

The main factor here is that he doesn’t  _ want  _ this. Sure, he’s been destined to eventually cause Armageddon, but the more time he spent on Earth and among the humans beside his angel, he just grew  _ tired.  _ Tired of his responsibilities, his expectations. Sleeping for 80 years did not ease that burden in the slightest, but he tried anyway. 

And as he looked in the basket with his spawn, this Antichrist, Hell’s revenge on humanity… 

He realized he did not want this child to become  _ him _ . 

(Let’s start at the beginning.)

-

Garden of Eden

4004 BC

The angel sat atop the edge of the Wall with his back to the serpent, watching the two former inhabitants of the Garden make their way into the barely-developed world. It would be too easy to go up and sink his fangs into his heel - the poor sap wouldn’t even know what hit him. Way too easy. It’s probably what the folks downstairs would expect of him anyway. But this Guardian would end up being remembered up Above as the one who died by Satan’s fangs. Surely, he couldn’t grant such a low-level angel such a famous death. He can’t be doing an angel of all things a  _ favor. _

He used that as an excuse to slither up the wall and stand beside the angel instead. 

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.” He expected some sort of reaction. Horror, maybe. It’s not everyday an angel gets the privilege to see Satan’s face and live. 

He wasn’t expecting the angel to perceive him with discomfort and poorly forced politeness. The angel even  _ laughed _ . A fake chuckle, but a laugh. As if appeasing the Devil’s lame attempt at small talk. 

He was almost insulted. Is that what Above truly thinks of him? After everything? Was he seen as nothing more than a particularly rude neighbor?

He tried to push the angel’s buttons, see if he could get a more true reaction. Questioning the Almighty’s Great Plan always puts angels in a tizzy. He had first-hand experience. 

But the angel was willing to debate with him. Not back away in fear or draw his flaming sword that must be at his side somewhere. But then it hit him. 

The angel had no idea who he was. 

Okay, well, the angel knew that he was the serpent, and that he tempted Eve, but he didn’t seem to know  _ who  _ he was. 

When asked for a name, he pulled one out of his ass. “Crawly.” 

(Crawly? Really? Might as well have said ‘Slithery’.)

The angel didn’t correct him. He expected there to be a moment, an ‘ _ oh _ ’, for the angel’s eyes to widen in fear as he realized who exactly he was. But there never was a moment like that. And as the conversation kept on, ‘Crawly’ hoped there wasn’t one. 

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” He asked when he finally concluded the angel wasn’t going to threaten him with it. “Lost it already have you?”

The angel floundered. “...I gave it away.”

“You  _ what? _ ” 

“I gave it away!”

The angel went on to explain why he gave Adam and Eve the flaming sword - “it’s going to be cold out there, and she’s expecting!” - but ‘Crawly’ couldn’t get passed the first part. 

An angel who not only doesn’t recognize Satan standing in front of him, but has also admitted to going against the Almighty’s direct orders. 

A strange feeling took root in the Devil’s chest, but it would take many years for it to blossom.

-

Mesopotamia

3004 BC

_ This  _ was why he chose to Fall.  _ This  _ was why others followed him. 

The Almighty and Her Great Ineffable Plan are just folly. He went around asking questions about things that the other angels were too afraid to ask themselves, so he was cast to Fall into the boiling sulphur pits of Hell. Why is She creating the Humans? Why do we have to love them more than Her? Then She goes and floods her precious Creations. Even the kids.  _ Demons  _ don’t even kill kids. 

(Well, the Devil doesn’t kill kids. “Easy pickings,” he said to his demonic underlings. “Too easy. Take their parents, that’s far more evil.”)

Whatever justification Aziraphale had convinced himself of, Crawly couldn’t accept it. 

(‘Crawly’ doesn’t sound exactly right but it sounded  _ better _ .)

He had one kid clinging to his side, shaking like a leaf. Another was tucked under his arm, and a third was carried on his back, gripping for dear life at the robe around his throat. The raging waters roared below, taking structures, animals, families left behind in its wake. Somewhere behind them was a boat holding exactly one (selfish) family and a hoard of animals. Crawly intended to take these kids to the highest mountain with the ones able to escape the flood, then go curse at God some more. 

Later, he would say to Beelzebub - the Lord of the Flies he leaves in charge now when the Devil is ‘tormenting the humans’ - that the Almighty planned to drown these humans, so it’s going against Her orders. Not to mention leaving them without family to support them. How dastardly. 

(He found the kids a place to stay and miracled them each a small fortune.)

In the rain that caused the flood, watching the bodies wash away, Crawly cursed Her. 

“You asked me to love humanity more than you,” Crawly said, staring up into the Heavens. “Well, there you have it: I do. Humanity deserves more than what you’ve done to them!” He gestured to the sad sight. “ _ This  _ is what you do to your precious Creations?  _ I despise anyone who still believes in your light! _ ”

(The last part wasn’t true. There was one exception.)

-

Golgotha

???

He didn’t realize he was doing it intentionally. He won’t realize for another millenia, plus some, and even then, it would already be too late. 

Hell fears the Devil. But what they fear most is the Unknown.  _ Crawly _ hasn’t given them any idea what he is capable of, and he’s going to keep it that way - because he doesn’t know himself. 

He knows that he can do things most other demons can’t. He can create, and will one day create a child destined to destroy Humanity. He knows he has strength that he hasn’t tapped into since he was thrown from Heaven. 

As the First Fallen, Lucifer was granted a form unlike anything human, positively horrifying and scaley in nature. Unlike his current form, and unlike his form in Eden. Something much larger, much stronger. 

His grand entrance into Hell had sparked fear among demons, and he was thrown into a position of leadership before he realized what was happening. Angry and hurt, feeling the stinging loss of Her love, he rolled with it. 

When he first spotted the Son of God, there was that devilish, damned part of him that was still angry, still squirming with hate for Her, that cried out for him to destroy what She had put on the Earth. 

Instead, he saw Aziraphale’s face light up on one of their rare, early meet-ups, one with alcohol that loosened the tongue, and the angel rambled on and on about what a bright boy Jesus will become. That he’ll do great things, he’s sure of it. 

And Crawly, who hears the name Crowley later that night and rolls it around on his tongue until he decides he likes it, can’t bring himself to follow his nature. He’s meant to thwart anything Heavenly, but he decides, in this rare case, that maybe he’ll let the boy prove himself first. 

The thing about demons, however (and angels, too, if you think about it), is that there is something decidedly Not Human about them, and they can’t simply repress their nature without consequences.

-

St. James’s Park

1862

Just because Hell was made up of rebellious ex-angels doesn’t mean they couldn’t start a second uprising. 

In other words, the King of Hell had been a bit absent and demons have started noticing. 

Lord Beelzebub had been doing an excellent job as Prince of Hell. Such an excellent job, that the demons prefer working under them. Not that the Devil minded, the less he had to do down there the better. It was just a bit worrisome that, if an angel like he once was could rebel against the One Who Created Everything, why wouldn’t a demon rebel against him, a lowly Fallen Angel?

(But then again, God has been silent for a thousand years now. Hell could deal with a slightly absent King.)

In conclusion, he figured keeping some holy water nearby was worth the trouble. Especially with his and Aziraphale’s Arrangement. 

(Which was quite one-sided. The Devil couldn’t exactly report to himself.)

Crowley - who had been going by that name for quite a while now - had been approached by one of his inferiors on a rare trip to Down Below. This demon took the form of a being with his hair curled into two upside-down cones on his head. It looked a bit ridiculous, in Crowley’s opinion. Just a good thing he was the only demon allowed to walk the Earth. 

“Master, sir,” The demon said, trembling with barely-concealed fear. He took the time to bow and kneel before him, which had Crowley impatiently tapping his foot. 

“Spit it out, then,” He urged. He had a meeting scheduled with Aziraphale soon. 

“Lord Beelzebub told me to report to you next time you’re here,” The demon explained, his words nearly slurring together as he, quite literally, spit them out. “There has been talk. About your….ability to perform your duties as King.” 

Crowley lowered his tinted glasses to glower at the demon. “What about it?”

The demon gulped. “Duke Hastur has said that perhaps you are unfit to--” 

He wasn’t able to finish as Crowley jammed the handle of his cane - gotten for this purpose specifically - under the demon’s chin and against one of the ooze-covered walls of Hell. “Then you are to pass on that talks of rebellion will result in a far worse fate than Falling into a boiling pit.” He leaned in close, his hot breath ghosting over the face of the demon, and hissed, “We’ve already hit rock bottom, after all.” 

The demon nodded. The moment Crowley’s grip loosened, he scrambled away and deeper into Hell. Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if there was a trail of piss behind him. 

He could handle a few low-level demons getting too cocky with their Pride, but the Duke? This just won’t do. 

Although, if he wasn’t in such a mood over this news, he might’ve been able to guess Aziraphale’s reaction to asking for this favor.

“It would destroy you!” Aziraphale argued. 

(To be honest, Crowley wasn’t sure that it would. Few know that the King of Hell knew very little about the extent of his own abilities. He may have been the First Fallen, but he wasn’t that much different than your everyday demon. Per a few exceptions.)

For reasons unknown, the sight of Aziraphale storming off and lighting the paper on fire in his pettiness had rocked Crowley to his core. Demons debating rebellion, the Duke turning against him, and now Aziraphale leaving him - the responsibilities of Hell had never been more tiresome. 

He gave Beelzebub some sort of excuse that he doesn’t remember now - possibly something about ‘weeding out rebellious demons’ - and slept for nearly eighty years, only to wake up in the middle of a war with an angel to save.

-

Soho

1967

Maybe it should’ve been the Nazis that made him realize it, or maybe it should’ve been the moment way back in Eden. But it was now when he realized how deep he was in this. 

Crowley had gotten used to this odd feeling that had taken route six thousand years ago, and it has since gotten stronger. He knew he was getting too attached, he knew it was dangerous to feel these things. He just didn’t realize he was  _ capable  _ of feeling like this, especially towards an angel. 

“ _ You go too fast for me, Crowley _ .” 

Ugh _ , _ he shouldn’t feel so  _ upset _ at hearing those words. 

It felt like a rejection. A rejection of something he didn’t even ask. But more than that, it felt like an acknowledgement of things he thought he kept on the down-low. Aziraphale had noticed his hidden feelings and gently put him down. 

(It didn’t occur to him to question how Aziraphale could notice Crowley’s feelings and not his true identity after six thousand years.)

(Perhaps Aziraphale was just that dense.)

Crowley was two seconds short of hitting his head against the wheel of the Bentley, and the only thing stopping him was possibly dislodging the cap on the thermos. 

The Devil should be able to handle rejections, should  _ thrive  _ on it. Satan didn’t need to be approved by some snot-nosed angels. The Morning Star was more than a vague feeling of  _ love _ . 

And yet, it still hurt. 

-

Present Day

By the time Crowley realized he did not want to be responsible for the end of the world, the Chattering Nun was already taking his baby away. 

It would do him no good if he took the baby back now. He will simply have to follow the American Ambassador and keep an eye out for his son.

_ His son _ …What a weird thing to say. 

(If you asked a demon how babies were made, most of them would ask, “Do I look like a stork to you?” and saunter off. Most answer this way because they do not have a clue how babies are made.)

‘His son’ might be a loose term. Demons, if they made an Effort, can have children in the Good Old Fashioned Human Way. But, at the risk of Nephilims and ruining Armageddon, they avoid it (but mostly they have better things to do). Demons can’t have children with each other, either. That privilege is saved for the Devil himself. 

Crowely didn’t make the Antichrist in the Good Old Fashioned Human Way, but instead he created the child in the same way he imagined God making angels. By calling deep into his power that he doesn’t often touch, and stringing together Hellish energy - Hell had been brimming with it, every demon growing excited over the birth of the Antichrist - until it melded into a vague living shape. All Crowley had to do from there was give it details. He plumped up the child’s cheeks, shaped blonde curls and blue, innocent eyes. This child was already gifted with the power to slip by unseen by any threatening forces as he grew, but Crowley thought that adding to his appearance (making him  _ angelic,  _ though he wouldn’t admit it) would aid in the child’s disguise. No ‘hoofie-woofies’ as the Nun had rambled on about before disappearing with the basket. 

(Stringing little balls of fire on a dark canvas. Giving them a spin until there was a scattering of starlight and explosions of color. He sculpted solar systems and planets. His best one, a small, pathetic thing, was blue and green and  _ perfect _ . Like a painter with a brush, he was made to  _ create _ .)

_ Warlock.  _ They named his child Warlock. 

Of course, he convinced Aziraphale to save the world with him. So now the angel was the gardener of the Dowling Estate - and doing a shit job of it without the help of miracles - and Crowley was the nanny. That position had the most facetime with the boy; something he felt was owed to him. 

He sang the boy a lullaby, watched his little hazel eyes droop - they had darkened in the last few years, something that Crowley was mildly disappointed by (and perhaps should’ve been suspicious of) - until the boy was fast asleep in his highly expensive bed. Crowley brushed the hair out of his face and admired his child, looking so peaceful and innocent, and wondered if it was possible for something so small to be capable of such great evil. 

Then the boy grew up, became a little Hellraiser by human standards, but no more troublesome than the expected spoiled brat. By the time his job as nanny had been fulfilled, he had grown ever more tired of his child’s antics. 

(Part of him almost wished he had the opportunity to raise him on his own.)

Watching his son write something absurd down on a plaque in the middle of the park with Aziraphale beside him, something else came to mind. Maybe he was desperate, maybe it was the lack of a true connection between him and Warlock, maybe it was that Warlock had grown into a selfish prick and undoubtedly would pull a heavy dictatorship over the Earth as if it was a child’s playground. And with the angel who had a tight grip on the strings wrapped around the Devil’s heart sitting beside him, Crowley couldn’t let that happen. 

“If there was no boy,” Crowley suggested. “Then the process would stop.” 

“But there is a boy,” Aziraphale argued, and they bickered in the way things tended to go until the angel understood his meaning. 

It pained him to suggest it, but at this point, it felt like the only way. 

Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis had retired a year prior to Warlock’s eleventh birthday. They showed up that day as a waiter and magician, respectively, casting minor miracles to keep Warlock from recognizing their slightly-altered appearances. Crowley kept an eye on his watch, waiting for the moment the hellhound would appear at the party, possibly chomping a couple kids before finally uniting with its owner. Then that could go two ways: either Warlock accepts the hound, or sends it away. They both hoped for the latter. If not, well…

(He hoped Aziraphale would do the smiting. That’s why he pushed that part onto the angel. One, because it would be expected of an angel to smite the Antichrist. Two, because Crowley could never bring himself to end his son’s life when he’s the one who created the child in the first place.)

But neither happened. The hellhound never showed up. 

“Wrong boy,” Aziraphale said. 

“Wrong boy,” Crowley echoed.

How could he have not recognized his son? For eleven years, he spent his time nursing a child he believed he had created. How could he not see the difference, when separated for only a few hours?

He felt the moment his true son had finally connected with the hellhound. It was like a chill, like ghostly fingers trailing down his spine. A tug beneath his ribs. Something instinctual calling out to  _ find him _ . 

He’d been slowly burying that part of him down for six thousand years. He wasn’t about to let his hard work crumble now. 

Keeping this little mistake under wraps was the best he could do. He was the only demon allowed on the Earth’s surface, and the only one in charge of keeping an eye on the Antichrist, so he was in full control of what information reached the lower-levels. He hoped, anyway. Not only would that be embarrassing, Satan losing his son, but it would be another reason for Hastur to start talking again. The last thing he needed on the verge of Armageddon was a rebellion. 

He could only hope, if things went on the way they were now, that he could keep Aziraphale safe. Hidden away from the other demons, the other angels, with an infinite supply of wine and books. It was the least he could do, once the angel found out who he was when he’s expected to lead the war. 

He found out Hastur had been going behind his back when they tried to hunt down his son’s records in the old nunnery. Somewhere along the way, the nunnery was burned to the ground, along with all the meticulously-kept records. The fact that no one reported this to him made him wonder how deep the Duke’s influence went. 

There was this tugging behind his ribs again, an urgent desire to  _ look  _ and  _ find _ , so maybe he was preoccupied with keeping that instinct at bay while driving and trying to listen to Aziraphale at the same time, and that might be why he didn’t notice the girl on the bike. 

The crash, at least, silenced the nagging voice for now. 

He allowed his plants to take on the brunt of this new frustration. 

“Can’t find the boy,  _ Hastur  _ of all of ‘em decide to turn their back on their  _ King of Hell _ ,” Crowley rambled as he gestured wildly with his mister. “Now Aziraphale’s acting all weird after I hit that girl. Er, the girl that hit me.” 

He tried to allow the burning instincts out that had been roiling in his chest since they first realized Warlock was not his son. Just enough to ease the threat of completely bubbling over, but not enough to unleash whatever it is trying to take over his common sense. 

(But he knew exactly what it was. They used to call it the  _ Morning Star _ .)

The words itched at the back of his tongue to be let out. “And….and….and the world is ending and I’m expected to lead it. I’m supposed to lead the armies of Hell alongside the boy.” It blurted forth to correct him. “ _ My son _ . My son, I’ve lost my son, and I’ve been without him for eleven years, and  _ how could that have slipped past me? _ How could I have not known? Satan, the King of Hell, Lucifer, the First Fallen,  _ couldn’t even recognize his own son? _ ”

He knew it wasn’t his fault, he knew that the Antichrist passed as a human to both ethereal and occult forces until he came into his power. He knew that the Chattering Nuns were an untrustworthy bunch, but at the time, he didn’t want to be involved. Thought that if he swept the problem under the rug it would solve itself. 

Except it didn’t. And here he was. Panicking. 

Bubbling up, and over. 

Crowley fell to his knees as the buried power just barely tipped over the edge. His hands shook as he held back the urge to smash every pot in the vicinity. The plants shook as if they could read his mind. He gripped his arms to keep himself still, his knuckles white with the effort. A hissing came from somewhere deep in his throat. If he looked in the mirror, he would’ve seen his eyes had filled with deep serpentine gold as the skin at the back of his neck grew dark scales. His nails grew into claws, his canines sharper and more defined. Venomous. 

He had flashes in his mind: wind whipping past him, pain, burning, hot, the smell of smoke, the smell of sulfur--

Then, shaking, he reigned it back in. Now that a little has seeped out, it feels less like a grenade about to explode inside of him. Slowly, with deep, struggling breaths, the demonic attributes recede. He regained his appearance of a mostly-normal man. 

He looked back up at the plants, who continue to shake in fear. He chuckled dryly. “Let’s not do that again, yeah?”

He might have to. It was still there, a constant threat inside him, trying to burst forth into what he truly was.  _ Fuck _ . He hadn’t had this much trouble in over six thousand years. 

He wasn’t exactly sure when it started. Sometime after the Fall, when he began to tire of his position before the Earth even began. 

He was not made for leadership. He was only made to create. To be frank, he only remembered bits and pieces of Before. Crowley only knew what he started because it was documented very well, and it lined up with what he did remember. He used to be so proactive, cursing God and Above, feeling entirely justified with his decisions. 

A part of him used to believe he was still that demon, still capable of creating such Evil. 

Now, he just wondered what the point of it all was. 

Maybe whatever used to be him - the parts he had forgotten, his motivations, his cruelty - was all shoved aside at one point, locked away, never to be opened. And then this Antichrist business happened, and it’s trying to take over again. 

Crowley really, really didn’t want to believe he was still the Morning Star. But it lived on, in some way. He just had to keep it in check until this nonsense blew over. 

(Somewhere else, the Duke of Hell met Warlock Dowling, who was very clearly not the Destroyer of Worlds.

Somewhere else, an angel is discovering the actual Antichrist. 

Somewhere else, a witchfinder is meeting a witch. 

Somewhere else, Adam Young is creating a new game.

But that other stuff isn’t important.)

Word has started to spread. He suspects Hastur, but the Duke of Hell is currently nowhere to be found. Furthermore, he’s expected to respond. 

“I fear that you don’t know ezzactly the kind of trouble we’re facing if you do not make an announcement,” Beelzebub said through the television, a low buzz in their throat. “Hazztur has already begun raizing doubt. If you do not make an example, then doubt turnz into rebellion fazt.” They paused. “But you already knew zzhat.” 

“Obviously.” His usual sarcasm couldn’t deter the Prince. That was why he appointed them the position. “I will address it soon. For now, where’s Hastur?”

“Nobody has seen the Duke for quite some time, now.” 

“Of course.” Knowing him, Hastur probably skipped out once Crowley discovered his insolence. “Start having people poke around. Report if anyone spots him. I’d like to have a word with our Duke.” 

Beelzebub shifted uncomfortably. “Of courzze, zir.” 

Crowley waved his hand and the television went dark. He could deal with Hell later. Right now, he needed to find the boy before Hastur did, wherever he was. He stood from his place at his desk and speed-dialed the only number he had saved. 

“It’s me. Meet me at the third alternative rendezvous.” 

“ _ Is that the old bandstand, the number 19 bus, or the British Museum Cafe? _ ” 

“The bandstand! I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” 

Things were getting sticky, on Earth and down Below, so he had to finally tell Aziraphale the truth. It would be rotten if he found out while the Apocalypse was upon them, because sooner or later, Satan was destined to lead armies against Heaven. 

So, maybe it was selfish of him to push killing the Antichrist on the angel. But once Aziraphale understood  _ why _ , Crowley hoped he would step up to the plate. He wasn’t sure if this pounding in his chest would allow him to kill his own son. 

And then Aziraphale has to act all dodgy, spouting stuff like ‘you can be forgiven’ like he wasn’t the first one Damned which made him more irredeemable than any other demon down in Hell (but Aziraphale still didn’t know that, did he?). Then Crowley suggests something that he didn’t think of until that moment:

“Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can go off together!”

But Aziraphale wasn’t having it. Somehow, somewhere along the way, Crowley had lost him. “It’s over,” felt more like a rejection than any time Aziraphale had walked away from him in the past. It was always a game, but Aziraphale wasn’t playing his part anymore. 

He wanted to try again, because of course he did. In all six thousand years, there has never been a moment where Aziraphale denied Crowley a second time. He planned the entire trip, all the way to Alpha Centauri, off the planet Earth and all the forces of Hell who would look for him and the angels of Heaven who would want to kill him. 

_ I helped build that one _ , he thought, and collapsed. 

Flashes of nebulas burst behind his eyelids. He felt the heat of the stars at his fingertips as he weaved them into endless spirals, placing them adrift into the blank canvas of the universe. There were others around him, crafting their own pieces of art, but they were faceless, at least for now. 

A small, lone planet drifted in front of him. It was the perfect planet, one could say. Filled with oceans and continents and life. If he looked close enough, he could see them milling about on the surface. Tiny beings of Her Creation. 

There was that insistent tugging behind his ribs. He felt a heartbeat in his ears, his breathing picked up, even though he understood he needed neither of those things. There was a guttural instinct that refused to be tamped down, like a flame in the back of his throat, or like a ticking bomb placed in the center of his chest. He clenched his fists, the back of his hands covered in scales and his nails stretched into monstrous talons, sharp enough to shred through bone. There was an indescribable rage, at Her, at Above, at this pathetic planet in front of him. 

Shaking from the energy powering through him, he took the planet in one fist and  _ crushed _ . 

It crumbled in his palm. He used both hands to make sure the planet was ground into fine powder. It slipped between his fingers and fell into place in the universe, flickering as new stars were born. 

A flash of warm light bathed over him from a spotlight somewhere above. He froze like a child caught red handed. The rage was gone, replaced by a cold fear that shook him to his core. 

The wings behind him vanished. He fell. 

Then woke up, gasping. 

Crowley had fallen against his chair, his hands gripping deathly white on the arm rest. The pushing, urging instincts in his chest were back, and he took a moment to reign it in until he could finally stand on wobbling legs. 

The floating pages from the astronomy textbook littered the floor and the globe was thrown across the room. Crowley was unsure if he had fallen unconscious or… 

The bomb in his chest pulsed. He swallowed the thought. 

(Somewhere, his child comes into his power.)

He still finds Aziraphale. He drove through the streets of Soho in search of that halo of blonde hair. Crowley would, of course, never admit that he had nearly begged on his knees for his angel to come to Alpha Centauri with him. He does not want to deal with being in charge of Hell, and he wasn’t going to let Aziraphale face the End Times by himself. 

He said some things he wasn’t proud of, bitter and angry, not just because of the impending Apocalypse, but because of the beating in his chest of something else thriving on it. It was like a parasite, gnawing on his insides as his sanity slowly withered away. 

_ Ugh _ . If Crowley intended to stay until the End, then he had to buy himself some time. Possibly throw off the inevitable rebellion at least until this nonsense is over with. 

Hastur and Ligur had allowed Pride into their dark corrupted souls. Not that Crowley was against it, but there was a fine line between arrogant enough to show for it, and downright cocky. 

The thermos of holy water came in handy to dispatch Ligur with ease. To be frank, Crowley only asked for it because at the time, he wasn’t sure about his own abilities to handle a rebellion. It was his secret weapon if an example is ever needed. 

However, despite all the new revelations he’s been having lately, Crowley found himself slipping easily into the role of a ruthless dictator. 

“Hastur, Duke of Hell,” Crowley greeted as the Duke wailed at the sight of melted Ligur staining his concrete floor. “Heard you been spreading some tales down Below, hm?”

Hastur blubbered. “Ah--perhaps you’ve misheard, my Lord.” He gestured to the puddle. “Ligur believed you were fraternizing with an angel. And-and that you’ve misplaced the Antichrist.” He laughed, so maniacally forced. “Ridiculous, obviously. I tagged along to see what would befall him. You know, us demons love to see each other suffer.” He was babbling and Crowley was growing tired of it. 

“You’re a shit liar, Duke.” 

Hastur’s grin fell. To Crowley’s delight, he seemed to crumple in on himself. But Crowley wasn’t completely heartless, despite what he’d say. 

“Relax. I’m not gonna kill you.” 

Hastur’s expression ran through relief, surprise, and suspicion, before settling on a glare. “Oh, of course. I knew you had gone soft--” 

“I’m going to demote you.” 

“...What?”

Crowley raised a hand, his powers flowing through him more naturally now than they have in thousands of years. Before Hastur could do anything to escape his punishment, the King of Hell snapped his fingers. 

Hastur’s form shook around the edges before he shrank. His human body permanently discorporated (at least for now), the Duke became nothing but an ugly, wart-covered toad. Hastur shook free of the baggy clothing over his new body and let out a pathetic croak. 

“Hastur, formerly Duke of Hell,” Crowley said, watching as the toad scrambled back and away. “You have been demoted to the First Circle, where you will sort paperwork to your heart’s content. Our demonic paperboy, so to speak. I expect you to be at work promptly by the time the war begins.” 

The toad let out another croak. It was a lot more boring to taunt him when he couldn’t talk back, Crowley discovered. 

“Oh, bugger off.” 

He snapped his fingers again and the toad disappeared, sent somewhere wet and dark, probably. Crowley wasn’t paying attention. 

When that little business was done, he headed over to Aziraphale’s bookshop only to have his own personal world end in flames.

(Somewhere else, Adam kept his friends prisoner as he looked down on them with golden eyes and slit pupils.)

“ _ Aziraphale! _ ”

Crowley charged inside the flaming bookshop, hoping for a sign, anything that could suggest his angel hadn’t gotten mixed up in it. But there was nothing, no body, no remaining essence, no sign he had merely discorporated. Crowley couldn’t sense his aura anywhere on Earth. 

As he knelt in the ashes, water and sweat dripping down his face, the bomb in his chest finally went off. 

Aziraphale was gone, the world was ending, he was expected to lead the fight in destroying the Earth, but most importantly,  _ Aziraphale was gone _ . 

There was no point in holding back the rage burning within him. 

There was no point holding back the Morning Star. 

A wail of agony erupted from the burning bookshop, so loud and destructive that it shook the streets of Soho all the way to Mayfield. Residents found their power flickered in and out for the following half hour. The fire inside the bookshop flared to impossibly hot temperatures, spreading in an instant to the neighboring buildings. If Crowley had been paying attention, he would find that it was that moment when the fire was cursed into hellfire. 

His nails broke off to make room for long, black talons that scraped the wooden floor of the bookshop. Scales covered the back of his hands and crawled up his arms to the back of his neck. Satan’s infamous fangs that held a venom potent enough to kill an Archangel sprouted between his teeth, his jaw unhinging to make room. Then, tearing fabric, large black wings burst from his back, scooping up flame from the surrounding bookshelves like a cursed magnet. 

The Star was not finished. There was still a long way to go. But this time, it was different. His serpentine eyes burned with bloody tears, staining his face. It would flow for as long as he was mourning. Even as he began to forget the reason why. 

His wings flapped downward, sending him up. The ceiling broke away as he flew above the bookshop, above London, his wings burning bright like the sun. 

The Mourning Star took flight. 

(A little more of Crowley burned away.)

Down Below, a bucket was tipped over, spilling the steaming remains of a demon as the crowd shuffled back, each one doing their best to hide their fear. 

“Now, if I hear another whiff of rebellion,” The Star growled, his voice resonating in a way that they haven’t heard in a millenia, striking deep enough to shake bone. “Your fate will be worse than a quick bath in holy water.” 

There was a pause of murmured agreement. Nobody dared to move. 

“You heard our Lord,” Beelzebub said, glancing uneasily to the Star. “Get back to work!” 

The crowd scrambled away. One or two were trampled as the demons tried to get away from the Star’s glare. One glance into those blood-stained yellow eyes had already sent a couple demons falling to one knee, overwhelmed with such emotional pain. Dagon had made that mistake, and it was the first time she had shed tears since the Fall. 

That was the other thing. Memories of the Fall were coming back to all of them. Some remembered bits and pieces, mostly the pain and anger, the very definition of Hell. But now, bits of their own personal trials, their Judgement, quickly followed by a swan dive through the clouds. The last moment they had heard God’s voice, felt Her warmth, and the moment it was ripped away. Not just anger at the betrayal, but grief at the loss. Most importantly, they remembered Lucifer, the one who never intended to Fall, who was thrown over by the hands of his Brothers. His cruel punishment, his choice ripped away, that resonated so deeply with the rest of them that they all chose to follow. 

That was the moment Hell truly became ready for the war. There an anxious energy, demons sharpening their weapons as the clock ticked down. There was new motivation. Not just vengeance on humanity, but for the pain She caused, for their old Heavenly friends who cast them out, for the punishment they received for choice. 

It wasn’t about prophecies and destiny anymore. It was personal. 

-

“ Oh Crowley, where the  _ hell  _ are you?”

Aziraphale murmured to himself as they stood on the airbase. The horsemen had been slayed, by the children no less. He expected the Antichrist to be dangerous, but he did not think about his friends. Thank heavens that he didn’t follow through on killing the child. 

If he knew Crowley wouldn’t have found himself to the airbase by now, then Aziraphale would have insisted that Madame Tracy gave him a call before they left. But now, he just hoped the demon was out of harm’s way. 

_ Perhaps to Alpha Centauri, _ he thought, even if it made him a little bitter. Maybe he didn’t expect Crowley to truly leave Earth to die - to leave  _ Aziraphale  _ to die. 

“ _ I won’t even think about you! _ ” Crowley had claimed, and Aziraphale had accepted it at the time after the cruel things he had said to Crowley earlier. 

But now? He would do anything to have his demon beside him. 

A crack of thunder interrupted the small group’s victory. Aziraphale felt the presence before Gabriel appeared at the airbase, his hair sticking on end as electricity crackled around him. Just a moment later, the ground burst beside him and revealed a figure with a fly on their head and a sash across their chest. Neither looked very pleased. 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel greeted, voice tight. “I’m surprised the demon on your shoulder isn’t here.” 

“Me too,” Aziraphale muttered. He still instinctively looked over his shoulder, expecting the demon to roll up in his Bentley or saunter up to his side, making some quip about starting without him. But every time he did, he was disappointed. 

The demon beside Gabriel, Beelzebub if Aziraphale assumed correctly, shot the Archangel a look before addressing Adam. “You, boy. Why hasn’t the war started?”

Gabriel butted in beside them and bent over to look down at Adam, wearing a patronizing smile. “Hi, you. Antichrist. You were put on the Earth for one purpose, and one purpose only, and that is to end it. So why hasn’t that happened yet?”

Adam shrugged.

Gabriel put his hands up and looked to Beelzebub expectantly. They rolled their eyes. “You have to zztart the war. It izz written in our destiny. If not--” They paused, grinning maliciously. “--we will tell your father.” 

“My father?” Adam echoed. “He wouldn’t be upset if I didn’t end the war.” 

“Not your human father.” Gabriel shook his head as if disappointed. “Your Satanic father.” 

_ Oh, no _ , Aziraphale thought, looking over his shoulder. 

“He hazz become very upzet at you,” Beelzebub said, taking delight in Adam’s discomfort. “Though I zzuppose I should thank you. Our Lord has been mostly absent from hizz role for zzix thousand years, preferring to dolly on the surface. Your disobedience hazz brought him back.” They leaned over to look him in the eye. “The Mourning Star will be  _ delighted  _ to end you.” 

The next moment, the angel and demon were gone. 

“They were odd,” Madame Tracy noted. 

“It’s not over yet.” Aziraphale picked up the sword that Pepper dropped, its flames coming to life in his hand. At that moment, the ground shook. 

It felt like a volcano erupting, as Anathema pointed out. She clung to her boyfriend; the children clung to each other; Aziraphale tried to keep his footing. Along with the quaking ground, Aziraphale felt dread cling to his spine, creeping like frost, an ethereal warning to whatever was coming. 

In the distance, the ground split. Dark smoke like that from a fire creeped out of the broken pavement, inching to cover the ground like fog. Another shake; the crack widened. Smoke pillowed out in clouds, an occultish wind pushing it to cover the battle field until it blocked out the sun. As it reached the group, Aziraphale took a breath in, and spasmed as pain rocked his chest. He doubled over, hacking as the smoke tore through his human ribs and dug deep, searching for his angelic soul.  _ Hellfire _ . 

The other members of the group did not seem as affected. It had the same effect on humans as normal smoke, but Adam seemed to understand the effect it had on an angel. The boy lifted a hand - the smoke retreated as if an invisible dome was placed around them. Aziraphale took in a relieved breath. 

“Is that better?” Adam asked, cocking his head. 

“Yes, thank you,” Aziraphale said, taking deeper breaths. The ground shook again, and even though Aziraphale couldn’t see the crack anymore, he was sure it was getting wider. “Listen, Adam. I don’t know what’s going to happen. But you should know: I was afraid you’d be Hell incarnate. I hoped you’d be Heaven incarnate. But you’re not either of those things. You’re human incarnate.” The ground shook again, and Aziraphale kept a steady hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Whatever you do, I’m with you. Okay?”

Adam cautiously nodded. 

They felt the moment the ground erupted. It rocked under their feet a final time, emitting a sound like an explosion, followed by the sound of stray debris hitting the pavement. There was deathly silence for too long. Aziraphale began to take the front of the group, keeping the kids behind him. Then: the nearly inaudible  _ shh, shh _ , of something dragging along rock. 

It was impossible to see anything through the hellfire smoke. Aziraphale still searched, waiting, for the large imposing figure of Satan, flaming sword held at the ready. He wasn’t expecting this anticipation; he thought the King of Hell would be too infuriated to wait for formalities. 

Aziraphale was so focused on what would appear in front of them that he didn’t notice shadows surrounding them. He only looked around when Anathema let out a gasp and, “Look!”

A large, imposing structure had closed in around them. It was difficult to make out details through the smoke, but he could see it faintly move and push along the ground, as if alive. It must be alive, but Aziraphale would compare it to the size of a house. Without them realizing, they were trapped. 

“ **SO** ,” A voice came from the dark, deep and rough. Aziraphale could sense something familiar about it, but he couldn’t make the connection through everything else running in his mind. “ **THE ANTICHRISSST SSSTOPPED ARMAGEDDON?** ”

There was a deep, echoing laugh that seemed to come from all sides. Aziraphale felt Adam grip his hand. The child, despite being so clearly afraid, faced Lucifer with a determined expression. 

“I did,” Adam said into the open air. “And you can’t change my mind.” 

The laugh trailed off. There was that sound again, of something dragging itself closer to them. Aziraphale could faintly make out a glow through the smoke. 

“ **WHY NOT?** ”

There was another pause. Adam opened his mouth, and hesitated. 

“Why not?”

“ **WHY DO YOU DEFEND THE EARTH?** ”  _ Shh, shhhh. _ “ **WHAT MAKESSS IT SO IMPORTANT?** ”

“Because my friends are here,” Adam said, as if it was obvious. “And my mum, and my dad. My  _ real _ dad.” A whine at the boy’s feet. “Oh, and Dog.” Adam bent to scratch the dog’s head. 

“ **THEY WILL BE FINE IF YOU WANT THEM TO BE FINE** ,” The Mourning Star continued. “ **WE COULD EVEN ORDER HELL TO AVOID ALL OF HUMANITY, IF YOU’D LIKE** .” 

Aziraphale cocked his head. As far as he knew, destroying humanity was the point of the war. Or, at least an inevitable casualty. He wasn’t expecting to be making deals with the Devil on the brink of Armeggedon. 

“...Why do  _ you  _ want to start the war so badly?” Adam asked the question Aziraphale was thinking. 

There was silence, and Aziraphale began to think that Lucifer wouldn’t answer. In the distance, he could start to make out the glowing outlines of massive wings, easily stretching the same width as a commercial airplane. Aziraphale gripped Adam’s hand tighter. The sounds of shuffling grew closer:  _ shhh, shhhhhh _ . 

“ **...OUR BATTLE ISSS WITH HEAVEN** ,” The Star said after a moment of hesitation. “ **THEY TOOK AWAY SSSOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT TO US.** ” Something about the way the figure spoke told Aziraphale that it wasn’t including the rest of Hell in its use of ‘us’.

“Maybe we can help you get it back,” Adam offered. “I can do a lot of things now, you know.” 

There was a bitter laugh. Aziraphale began to make out details of the figure approaching them. The wings appeared even bigger the closer it came towards them, and now he could see a crown of long, sharp horns encircling the figure’s head. The wings, dark as night, were aflame in hellfire. Long arms appeared to dig into the pavement and drag itself along, as if the Mourning Star couldn’t walk. 

“ **YOU CANNOT RETRIEVE WHAT IT ISSS THEY HAVE TAKEN** ,” The Star said in a tone of melancholy. “ **THISSS PERSSSON IS GONE FOR GOOD** .” 

There was the steady sound of cracking rock each time the Star crawled closer, digging its talons into the stone. 

Adam thought for a moment. “I could try bringing them back? I’m not sure how to do that, but I can try.” 

There was another laugh, sad, withdrawn. Aziraphale wondered what exactly hurt the King of Hell so badly. He tried not to feel bad over the person who caused the Fall - who caused Crowley to Fall. A sin like that cannot be forgiven in the eyes of the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. 

The Star approached close enough now, just beyond the smoke, that Aziraphale saw long red hair covering its face. If he looked close enough, he would spot a familiar charred jacket and loose tie on the large, imposing figure.

“ **FOOLISH BOY** .” The hair parted to reveal a single, glowing, serpentine eye that was stained red with tears of blood. “ **IT IS TOO LATE** .” 

Aziraphale froze on the spot, making an abrupt connection between the Mourning Star and that nagging feeling at the back of his head. But it couldn’t be true - could it?

He blinked as he realized tears were falling down his face. He wiped them away only for them to keep flowing beyond his control. There were flashes in his mind - ducks, a piece of paper lighting aflame on top of a bed of water, a thermos being handed over in the dim streetlights, the  _ fear  _ and  _ grief  _ at the idea of seeing a steaming holy puddle one day,  _ too fast too fast too fast _ \--

There was sniffling behind him and Aziraphale shook himself back to the present. He looked over to see their humans friends doubled over as emotion wracked their bodies. Anathema and Newt clung to each other as they sobbed; Madame Tracy had her head buried in Shadwell’s shoulder, and the kids knelt on the ground as they hiccuped. 

“What are you doing?” Adam shouted, his voice cracking as he scrubbed stubborn tears from his eyes.

“Crowley…?” Aziraphale said, voice just above a whisper, because he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

The figure loomed above them now, and even as the tears blurred his vision, Aziraphale could see that it was, without a doubt, Crowley. He was intimately familiar with his sharp cheekbones, his narrow frame, and especially those serpentine eyes - only now they were filled with bloody tears that ran down his chin, his brilliant red hair falling like a veil, and the absolute size of him now. This Crowley would shame most buildings back in Soho, even as he leaned forward on massive clawed hands. And as Aziraphale looked down, he realized Crowley was dragging himself along the ground because his lower half had been turned back into a red-bellied serpent. A massive, tail-end of a serpent, and as Aziraphale looked at the vague shapes in the fog, he realized that Crowley was constricting them.

Aziraphale might have limited time here to find out what on Earth changed since he last saw his best friend. 

The last time he saw Crowley was on the street, swearing that he would leave to Alpha Centauri and never see Aziraphale again. It was the first time Crowley had lashed out at him in centuries, but he understood why. Impending doom was a large stress factor. 

It was also the first time Aziraphale wondered if Crowley would truly leave him. 

That clearly wasn’t the case. Now, and this is still impossible to believe, if he humored the idea that Crowley had been Satan this entire time… 

Perhaps rejecting Lucifer would incite a reaction like this. He didn’t like to compare his best friend to Satan, but he didn’t have a choice. Crowley - the Mourning Star? -  _ this serpent  _ had already admitted that Heaven took someone away from him. Someone important; he wanted to destroy Heaven because of it. The realization sunk like a stone in Aziraphale’s stomach. 

He had scorned the King of Hell and now he was facing the consequences of it.

“It doesn’t have to be!” Adam shouted, bringing Aziraphale back to the present. 

It was enough to break whatever hold the Star had on them. Aziraphale felt the tears thankfully pause in their flow along with the weight of grief that clung to his soul like a wet t-shirt. The one serpent eye fixed on Adam, eyebrows pinched together in surprise. 

“ **YOU DO NOT UNDERSSSTAND,** ” The Star said, and how did Aziraphale miss the hissing until now? “ **IT ISSS TOO LATE FOR ** ** _USSS_ ** .” 

Pepper got to her feet and glared upwards. “You can’t just keep being vague and expect us to understand!” 

The Star did not respond. He loomed over them, single unveiled eye unwavering on Adam. It was as if no one else existed. 

“Uh, what she said,” Adam said.

It was only then that the Star responded. “ **OUR LESSER HALF HAS SSSPENT SSIX THOUSSAND YEARSSS LOCKING AWAY THISSS PART OF USSS. WHEN HISS WORLD WENT UP IN FLAMESSS, I WAS THERE. I TOOK OVER. AND NOW, WE TAKE OUR REVENGE.** ”

“Oh, Crowley...” Aziraphale had said such cruel things, many he didn’t mean. How would he have known it would result in this?

Adam glanced at him. “You know him?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “I thought I did.” 

Adam seemed to understand. “I think you should talk to him, then.” 

Aziraphale looked up. If it was anyone else, he would back away at the chance to speak to the King of Hell. But pushing that aside, and seeing this figure as his friend, put into such a state by his own words - that caused Aziraphale to step up. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale started, cautious. The imposing being did not waver. “Crowley?”

No reaction. The Mourning Star remained fixated on Adam. 

Aziraphale floundered for a moment. Then, “I’m sorry for what I said before. It is not that I didn’t want to run away to the stars with you, you must understand that. I simply felt that it was worth trying to save the Earth before resorting to an escape plan.” 

Again, no reaction. No acknowledgement of what Aziraphale is trying to say. He huffed. 

“And I’m sorry for saying I don’t like you. I do. I care very much for you.” Feeling everyone else’s eyes on him, he cleared his throat. “And--And that’s why  _ this _ is scaring me so much!” 

A muscle around that serpentine eye twitched. The slit pupil slid from Adam to Aziraphale and narrowed. A serpentine tongue flicked out between strands of red hair before disappearing again.

“ **ANGEL** ,” The Star hissed. 

For a moment, hope bloomed in Aziraphale at the nickname. Maybe the demon he knew wasn’t lost for good. 

Then, the Star lifted a heavy hand and dug it into the concrete just beside Aziraphale, using the momentum to lean down and glare. Aziraphale felt himself gasp, once again overwhelmed with grief and pain, flashes in his mind of the bastille and the fire in the Library of Alexandria and the crucifixion and  _ well that went down like a lead balloon _ , so quickly and so powerful that it knocked him down to his knees. A fresh wave of tears clouded his vision. 

The booming voice, “ **YOU ANGELS ALWAYS BELIEVE YOU KNOW BEST. BUT YOU MUST BE A FOOLISH ONE IF YOU CAME TO FACE ME ALONE.** ”

_ He didn’t recognize him _ . Aziraphale felt cold wash over him at that thought. 

“Crowley--” Aziraphale tried to say, but his voice broke halfway through as a sob ripped his throat. 

A church, Nazies,  _ like being on the beach in bare feet _ ; the Eastern Gate, watching two figures in the distance, the Almighty’s warm light, the last time She talked to him directly--

A small hand laid on his shoulder and he gasped in a cold breath, his head clearing. Adam stood beside him, staring up at the Star defiantly. 

“If you listen to him,” Adam began, and nobody would be able to tell that he was so nervous that his hands were shaking. “I’ll do what you ask of me.” 

Slowly, the slit eye shifted back to the boy. The hair masking his face shifted with a hidden grin. “ **SO BE IT.** ” Back to Aziraphale. “ **SPEAK, ANGEL** .” 

Aziraphale climbed back to his feet and sent Adam a grateful look. Then, he nervously looked up at the familiar, yet frighteningly unfamiliar, face of his best friend. 

“Crowley,” He said, cautious. “It’s just me. Aziraphale...Principality?”

For a moment, there was deathly silence. Only the children’s nervous breathing as the others watched the exchange. Aziraphale tried not to feel intimidated with a burning yellow eye staring him down, unblinking, leaking an endless stream of blood. 

The eye narrowed. “ **LYING TO USS ISS NOT A SSSMART MOVE, ANGEL.** ” The Star leaned forward, the tail around them constricting tighter, finally breaking through the invisible barrier keeping the hellfire smoke at bay. The two couples instinctively went to surround the children in an attempt to shield them. Adam stood unflinching next to Aziraphale. 

“I’m not lying!” Aziraphale argued, waving away the smoke that drags in with the constricting serpent tail and ignoring the faint burn it brings, “Crowley! It’s me!” 

“ **AZIRAPHALE ISSSS DEAD** ,” The Star growled as if saying this was like driving a blade in his heart. “ **AND YOU DARE USE HISSSS NAME?** ”

Aziraphale didn’t have a chance to argue. The Star lifted a large, clawed hand that let off dark steam as if his skin was the source of the sulfuric smoke. It reeled back, fingers curled, preparing to strike. 

Azirpahale gripped Adam’s shoulder and used a miracle to send them on the other side of their protective dome. The hand came crashing down onto the airbase pavement, sending bits of rock like rain and cracking the ground in long tendrils. The hand could easily have leveled his bookshop with little effort, Aziraphale thought, and gripped the flaming sword tighter. 

Adam looked up at him. “I don’t know if I can make him listen.” He sounded genuinely remorseful. 

“It’s okay, dear boy,” Aziraphale said. Behind him, his wings manifested in a soft glow of light. “I’ll make him listen.” 

With a strong flap of his wings, he sent himself up. Adam’s influence followed him; the hellfire smoke parted to allow his ascent, up and up, towards the menacing serpent eye that followed his every move. 

He narrowly dodged the next attack. It was hard to miss whenever the Star would move. He caught the massive arm lifting just in time to dodge the swipe, feeling the sharp heat even from a distance. Aziraphale flapped his wings, pushing himself faster. It disrupted Adam’s influence, and the hellsmoke clogged in his lungs as he gulped in a breath. It almost made him falter, but Aziraphale’s resolve held up. He resisted the urge to breathe - not like he needed it, anyway - but the hellsmoke still made his skin blister. 

He didn’t stop until he was hovering just in front of the Star. This high up, he saw a lot more details. The large, black wings extended far past than Aziraphale could see, only highlighted by flames that licked each feather. Red, matted hair nearly hid all the Star’s features except the single serpent eye, beads of blood still welled in the corners and rolling down his cheeks. The power became nearly overwhelming at this point. He was hit with nearly-forgotten imagery: of sitting at the edge of the clouds and watching stars form above him, of the planet below him. Watching the rebellious angels Fall, diving after their inspiration, and that little thought that came to him then, a  _ what if _ , as he toed the edge - but fear held him back. Fear held him back for six thousand years, but not anymore. His wings did not falter, even as the smoke stained the tips of his feathers. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, willing his voice to be firm despite the rawness in his throat. “Come back to me, or…” There was a movement behind him, and he knew he was seconds away from being snatched up into clawed hands. He glanced to his sword. Into the eye. The next words were ripped from between his lips as he gasped in an agonizing breath, “Or I’ll never talk to you again!” 

Maybe it was the odd threat, or maybe the Star could see him clearer now, but either way, something happened at that moment. The Star’s hands paused just before snatching the angel. Everything seemed to freeze, even the blood dripping from the Star’s chin. The serpent eye widened.

A soft, cautious rumble, “ **...Angel…?** ” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Yes, yes! Oh, Crowley, I was so worried--” A rough cough interrupted him, this time causing his wings to fumble and to start drifting down. Aziraphale tried to gasp and found he couldn’t; his muscles seized and he couldn’t flap his wings to save himself. Like a drowning swimmer, he flailed for air that wasn’t there. 

Large hands caught him. Aziraphale fell to his knees, his hands supporting him, and a distant part of his mind noticed that the skin felt warm, but wasn’t hot. Comforting. 

A soft breeze blew over him, and Aziraphale found cleaner air. He gasped in - despite not requiring to breathe, hellfire made it much more difficult to remember that. He looked up into large serpent eyes, the matted red hair momentarily brushed back. Bloody tears had stopped their flow but remained smeared across his face, revealing a frightened expression. 

“ **Sorry--I didn’t know--** ” Crowley said, flinching at the volume of his own voice. 

Aziraphale grinned, manic and exhausted and in pain. “I know. But isn’t it about time to return to a more...appropriate size?” 

Crowley looked down at himself. “ **...Right.** ”

Aziraphale was carried for half the descent, until he couldn’t fit in Crowley’s hand anymore. Aziraphale used his wings to float beside Crowley as he shrunk down to a more normal size, despite the throbbing in his chest and the tingling on his skin, like a sunburn. As they went, the smoke surrounding them dissipated until they could see the sky above them again. 

When Aziraphale’s feet touched the ground, Crowley still towered a half foot over him. In fact, beyond his size, not much else has changed. His lower half remained a long snake tail, but it curled harmlessly behind him now. His t-shirt and jacket were rumpled and singed. His long hair remained, along with the four horns and full serpent eyes. He shook his head, as if dazed. 

“...I think thisss is the bessst I can do right now,” He said in a soft hiss. Crowley tried to take a step - well, slither a step, but lost his balance. If Aziraphale hadn’t caught him, he would’ve fallen across the pavement. 

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, holding him under his arms. 

Although Crowley had clearly gone through some changes in the time they were apart, his wide eyes and slightly flushed face were so familiar that it helped Aziraphale’s remaining nerves relax. 

Dumbly, Crowley replied, “Uh, yeah, I’m--I’m good.” 

“Good.” Aziraphale gripped him by the shoulders and allowed himself to freak out a bit. “You are  _ Lucifer?! _ And you never told me?  _ What  _ was all this about? Crowley, my dear, you have a lot of explaining to do--!” 

“Right, angel, I know,” Crowley said, and now he sounded more like himself. “But, can we do this later…?” He nodded towards the others, who had started to gather around them now that the threat has passed. 

Aziraphale wasn’t ready to let it go, but he had to for the moment. 

“Aren’t you Satan?” Pepper asked, with the same conviction she had when facing down War. Aziraphale was certain she’d be just as comfortable aiming his flaming sword at the King of Hell as she was at the Horsewoman. 

“Would that make you my dad?” Adam asked, confused more than anything else. 

“Er - in a way,” Crowley said, appearing very embarrassed by that fact now. Aziraphale’s scandalized look didn’t help. “Listen, kid--” 

Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s arm and wobbled for a moment, before slowly slithering up to Adam. He curled his tail under him to sit back on and met the child’s eye level. 

“I’m sorry. About all that.” Crowley gestured vaguely to himself. He cast a glance at Aziraphale. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I don’t actually want there to be a war. And, uh, I’m fine with not being your dad. Obviously, since I wasn’t there. Funny story about that, actually…” 

Adam was saved from a confusing story about Lucifer misplacing his own son when the  _ beep-beep _ of a car interrupted them. Across the airbase, there was a familiar family car driving up with a disgruntled Mr. Young at the wheel. 

It was enough of an excuse for everyone to disband. Right before Crowley and Aziraphale left the airbase, the previous Mourning Star looked back in time to see Mr. Young embrace Adam before scolding the Them. 

Maybe there should’ve been some instinctive feeling that told him what was his should stay his, or something possessive like that. But Crowley only felt relieved to know that his creation was in good hands. 

-

They found themselves at a bus stop bench. Crowley managed to turn his tail back into mostly-functioning human legs, and did away with his wings. The only part that stubbornly remained was his unruly hair and the crown of horns that they tangled in. Luckily, his natural wards kept any nearby humans from questioning it. 

Crowley miracled a wine bottle into existence and had been steadily sipping from it the moment no impressionable kids were in sight. The last few hours were something to think about. 

If someone, like you, Reader, had asked Crowley what the Hell had happened earlier, he would say it’s a gaping black hole in his memory. But if that someone had been Aziraphale, he would’ve said that it was like reliving every painful, torturous event in his life, every memory he had tried to repress, being brought to the forefront of his mind, becoming fuel in a pain-induced revenge plan. 

But if he was already working his way through a bottle of wine, exhausted physically and mentally, then he explained it by, “Like those things humans have. Mental breakdowns, s’what they’re called.” 

“...Because you believed I was dead?” Aziraphale asked, quietly. 

Crowley’s silence was answer enough. 

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale took his hand, unknowingly rendering Crowley’s vocal chords useless. “How about we go back to the bookshop? I got a stockful of wine in the back, and the sofa is always there for you...” He trailed off as Crowley gave him a mournful look. 

“It burned down,” He said, soft. “Went looking for you, and it was all up in flames.” 

“Oh.” That bookshop had been his home for almost two hundred years. It was more than a home than Heaven ever felt, and he was more comfortable thinking that now that Heaven has rightly disowned him. He felt tears spring to his eyes at the thought. 

Crowley’s hand twisted to link their fingers together. “You can stay at my place, if you’d like.” 

Clearing his throat, Aziraphale repeated his old argument. “I don’t think my side would like that.” 

“You don’t have a side anymore,” Crowley said. “Not even sure if I still do.” 

After a still moment, Aziraphale nodded. 

The bus arrived on time and found itself on route to London despite being way off schedule. The entire time, Aziraphale clung to Crowley’s hand, seeking some sort of support as he felt himself approach what Crowley called a ‘mental breakdown’. 

He somehow held together long enough to make it to Crowley’s apartment. There, his hand slipped from Crowley’s as he leaned back against the door. He didn’t have time to appreciate that he was in Crowley’s private apartment for the first time as he was hit with a final, ground-breaking realization. 

Crowley was the Devil. Crowley has also been his friend for six thousand years, give or take. His best friend, his only friend, now. They experienced living on Earth together, they enjoyed human delicacies together, they’ve had an Arrangement for a couple hundred years now. 

And Aziraphale had fallen hopelessly in love with him. 

( _ How does someone accidentally fall in love with Lucifer?  _ Well, it should be expected if he saves a couple of books for an avid book-reader who does not know his true identity.)

“What is it, angel?” Crowley asked, soft, as if afraid Aziraphale would fall apart any second. His crown of sharp horns had finally receded to two small bumps on his forehead, and he tied his hair into a careless bun on the bus ride here. 

Aziraphale couldn’t look away. 

“Is the fact that I’m... _ you know _ ….making you have second thoughts about…?” Crowley gestured vaguely between them. He rocked on his feet, so completely out of his element that Aziraphale had to fight back a grin. “‘Cause I know I should’ve told you, but being on Earth, with you, I didn’t have  _ responsibilities  _ or  _ expectations _ . I don’t wanna go around damning souls to eternal pain, I wanted to go to the Ritz and glue coins to the sidewalk and shut down phone towers!” Crowley began to pace and gesture his arms to his rant of six thousand year old conflicts. “I mean, obviously I should care about ending the world, that’s what Satan’s supposed to do, but I discovered being  _ Crowley _ is a helluva lot more fun. I think sometimes that I probably should’ve been a low-level demon and somethin’ just got mixed up along the way. It’s not written anywhere in the Bible that Satan is supposed to like humans, or the Earth, or fall in love with an  _ angel  _ of all things, but that’s just how it happened, apparently. I’d call Her out for cheating if She tries to claim this was all Her doing!” 

He gestured with wide arms, only pausing in his rant when he saw Aziraphale’s clasped hands over his mouth. Then, what Crowley said caught up to him. 

Aziraphale would’ve laughed at seeing the Devil so scared out of his wits if he wasn’t so damn terrified himself. 

“Uh,” Crowley said. If Aziraphale wasn’t standing in front of the door, he would’ve bolted out of it by now. 

“Oh, my dear.”

“You don’t have to say anything, angel.”

“But Crowley—“

“If you’re not ready, I get it. Especially after today. Didn’t mean to let any of that out, to be honest. I-“ He paused, watching Aziraphale cautiously. “I don’t wanna go too fast.”

Aziraphale softened. The bus ride allowed him to be frightened of the future, of what would change between them because of Crowley’s true identity; but he didn’t realize that nothing would change at all. Crowley is already who he truly is, and has been, ever since that day on Eden’s Wall. 

Aziraphale stepped forward and took Crowley’s trembling hands in his. Crowley looked prepared for a lecture, or a scolding, or worse, a blow, so Aziraphale pressed a gentle kiss to the demon’s knuckles. Crowley took in a sharp inhale, but there was hope in his wide eyes now. 

“My darling,” Aziraphale began, the nickname forming naturally on his lips. “You could have been a minor demon, a major demon, or an angel, or even God Herself, and my feelings for you wouldn’t change. I’d find a way to love you no matter what form you take.” 

Crowley’s jaw had gone slack. His throat bobbed, and his hands shook again, but Aziraphale didn’t have a moment to ask if  _ that  _ was too fast, because the next second he was being yanked into a frantic kiss. 

Aziraphale sank into it. Crowley’s desperate hands gripped onto Aziraphale’s as if afraid to let go, pressing against the angel as if this would be the last time they had this moment. Despite this, Crowley was gentle, pulling at Aziraphale’s bottom lip but not daring to go any further. 

Aziraphale couldn’t hold back a fond smile that broke the kiss. Crowley pulled back, confusion and doubt already pulling at his eyes.  _ That won’t do _ . 

Aziraphale untangled his hands from Crowley’s tight grip, only to cup Crowley’s cheek with one, and slide the other to the back of his neck. Crowley, flustered as he finally caught on, latched his hands to the angel’s elbows as if unsure what else to do with them. Aziraphale pulled him in a second time. 

The second kiss was much more pleasant. Aziraphale kept the pace slow, now that he wasn’t taken by surprise. He used his grip to tilt Crowley’s head until their lips slotted together. There, he kissed his demon slowly and languidly, almost lazily, which made an impatient sound rise out of Crowley’s throat. 

Aziraphale had kissed once or twice. All with humans, one of those desires he always wanted to explore with the right person but couldn’t. Until now. 

At last, he allowed his lips to part and for an exploratory tongue to slip past Crowley’s lips. Crowley let out a soft gasp, which allowed Aziraphale to slip inside and meet the curled, slit serpent tongue. 

Hours must have passed since they stepped into the apartment, but both of them felt the moment was over way too soon. By the time the kiss ended naturally, Crowley had sank into Aziraphale. At some point, his hands had dropped from the angel’s elbows to grip his waist instead, bringing them chest-to-chest. Aziraphale kept his hand cupping Crowley’s cheek, his thumb brushing just underneath a half-lidded serpent eye, blown wide with emotion. 

His loving gaze might have been too much for the demon. Crowley tugged Aziraphale close again, but this time, he pressed his cheek against Aziraphale’s hair, pressing a soft kiss there. They stood in an embrace for a while, warm, almost-tangible love floating around them like sweet molasses, so thick that Aziraphale was certain Crowley could feel it, too. 

When Aziraphale finally broke the silence, he cleared his throat of the emotion building in it, and chuckled. “I think Heaven still believes you are only a minor demon.” 

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “Might want to keep it that way.” 

“They will come after me, I’m sure.” 

Crowley’s grip on him tightened. “I’ll kill them if they do.” 

“No, you won’t.” 

The demon mumbled into his hair, “No, guess I won’t.” 

Another pause. Aziraphale asked, “What about Hell?”

“They wouldn’t dare.” 

“I mean, what if they went after you?” 

Crowley let out a long sigh. “I don’t know if they will. I’m still technically in charge down there.” 

“Should you go Down and discuss what happened?” 

Crowley groaned. “Don’t  _ wanna _ .” He pulled Aziraphale impossibly closer. “Wanna stay here. With you.” 

Aziraphale grinned. He was tempted to say yes, that they should soak up each other’s presence until the other shoe drops, but there was work to do before then. 

Reluctantly, he pulled out of Crowley’s hold, wiping away the demon’s frown with a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“I would love that, dear. But I think we need a plan first.” 

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, alright, angel.” 

-

The next day, everything was back to normal.

People who were dead, are not, and any damage Adam’s brief reign of terror caused was fixed. The city of Atlantis disappeared and the krakken went back to sleep. The Earth still thrived on its polluted air. 

The bookshop was back in place. 

Crowley parked the Bentley on the curb - it was found in perfect condition outside his apartment, despite being left and forgotten at the ruin of the bookstore the day before - and followed as Aziraphale approached the front door. 

Despite the fact that Crowley had burst through its roof, and that the building collapsed soon after, it was standing strong as if it was the day of its grand opening. Crowley couldn’t suppress a shudder, despite how safe it looked. He remembered vividly the hellfire that broke through its windows, the sinking feeling in his stomach as he couldn’t sense the angel anywhere on Earth. The place where he decided the world wasn’t worth living in. 

He was tugged from his thoughts by a hand taking his. Aziraphale smiled from his side, something knowing in his eyes, and they entered the shop together. 

It was exactly as Aziraphale had left it. Well, aside from a new set of children’s books that they both recognized as new. Aziraphale spent a moment examining them while Crowley rocked on his heels. 

“Suppose I gotta figure out what Down Below wants,” Crowley said, his entire demeanor contradicting his words. 

Aziraphale immediately dropped his attention from the new books and turned to Crowley. He kissed him, lightly, loving, (they had last night to really understand each other) before pulling away. 

“Be safe,” Aziraphale said. 

“Not many things can hurt me, angel.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

No, he didn’t.

“I’ll come back,” Crowley said instead. “They still fear me, as far as I know.” 

“As far as you know,” Aziraphale echoed. He sighed. “Please be quick.” 

Crowley kissed him again. “Of course.” 

Then he left, the Bentley roaring off down the street. 

Aziraphale fluttered around the bookshop for a while, unable to quell his anxious energy, before finally plucking one of the new children’s books off the shelf and settling down with it. He glanced frequently at the clock.

-

Hell was as welcoming as it has always been. 

That is, not at all. 

Minor demons jumped out of his path as usual, but there was a suspicious energy among the major demons. He passed Dagon, who eyed him warily, as if he was a wild animal and his next moves were unpredictable. When he stopped to talk to her, she scurried away as if she didn’t notice him. 

On the way, he passed by the First Circle and discovered Hastur had finally got a new corporation and was sorting mail with a defeated expression. Crowley still felt a bit of triumph for knocking the Duke down a few pegs, but he thought if anyone could give him some insight on how Hell was handling the failed apocalypse, it was his old underling. 

“Hastur,” He greeted, startling the demon to dropping a handful of envelopes. 

“Our Dark Lord.” Hastur plastered on a thin smile, gripping letters in his hand until they crumpled. “Come to further embarrass me?” 

“No, no. Uh, got a question.” He glanced around; the mail room was always crowded, as was the rest of Hell, but everyone wisely kept their eyes away from this discussion. “How deep does resentment against me go?”

Hastur studied him, trying to see what part of his question was a trap. Cautiously, he said, “The people are confused.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“What you pulled yesterday gave them hope, and then you disappeared.” He paused, and when Crowley didn’t immediately smite him, soldiered on. “I thought you finally understood the role you play in this, but now I’m just as lost as everyone else.” 

The mail room had gone silent, and while there was the occasional shuffle of paper, it was clear all attention was on them. 

“I gave them hope?” Crowley asked. Truth be told, he didn’t remember much after discovering the bookshop fire. It was all a blur of pain and grief. Memories from the Fall, memories of Aziraphale, that blinded him. 

“Unlike you, a lot of us didn’t remember our lives before the Fall,” Hastur said, his voice hushed. “But when you stormed down here to prepare us for the Great War, you brought memories with you. From Before.” He paused. Then, “I was a Cherub.” 

Crowley would’ve snickered, if the lesser demon didn’t sound so mournful over that fact. 

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. 

Hastur remembered himself, and his face became impassive again. “You gave our memories back to us,  _ Crowley _ . We can’t let go of it so easily a second time.” 

For once, Crowley made himself listen to the ex-Duke. He didn’t remember doing such a thing, but that wasn’t an excuse to leave Hell in such a sorry state. 

“I think you’re right, Hastur.” 

Hastur blinked. “I am?”

“Maybe I’m not cut out for running this place afterall.” 

Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the mail room, leaving a spluttering Hastur behind, shouting, “What does that mean?!”

Crowley headed for the throne room next. The place where Beelzebub spends most of their time - mostly doing his job. 

They were there when he entered, discussing something hushed with one of the lesser demons, the one that Crowley always forgets the name of. Cone-head, he called that one. He was carrying a bucket with a lid that struggled to stay on, giving Crowley a flash of angry flames on the inside. Grimacing, Crowley lingered a couple feet away. 

Beelzebub spotted him and dismissed Cone-head, who nodded politely to Crowley before rushing past. Crowley opened his mouth to ask, but Beelzebub beat him to the punch. 

“Our  _ Dark Lord _ ,” Beelzebub sneered, the only one in Hell with the bravery to mock his name. “We’re zzzupposed to be at war right now. What in  _ Heavenzz  _ happened yesterday?”

“I guess that’s what I came here to discuss,” Crowley said, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I’ve been lying to you, Bee. To all of you.” 

Beelzebub crossed their arms. “You don’t want to destroy the Earth.” 

Crowley gaped. “Uh, wh--How--?”

“You zzzpent the last zix thousand years on the Zzzurface, my Lord,” Beelzebub said, and settled back in their throne that looked like the world’s worst recliner. “Out of your own volition. I started to zzuspect it wasn’t just about ‘tormenting humans’ when you zztopped trying to come up with excuses.” 

Ah. So it’s been a few thousand years. Crowley felt hot under his collar. “Ah.” 

“Relax. I’m not mad. I enjoyed running Hell azz my own for a while.” Beelzebub grinned. “But yesterday, I thought you might be trying to take back your power. It wazzz….not like you.” Their grin faltered, as if they couldn’t decide to like that idea or not. 

“I wasn’t really m’self,” Crowley muttered. 

“Hell is dizzappointed, nonethelezzzz,” Beelzebub said. “I wazz hoping you’d show so we could dizzcuzzz thiz.” 

“Right,” Crowley said. He rocked on his feet. “There was something else, actually. An angel--” 

“Yezz, the  _ angel _ ,” Beelzebub said disdainfully. They leaned forward conspiratorially. “I didn’t want this zzzpreading around, but that angel hazz allegedly been conspiring with one of our own. I have our most trusted weeding out the traitor, but no leadzz so far.”

Crowley swallowed. “Oh.”

“But don’t worry about the angel,” Beelzebub said, waving a hand as if waving away the idea. “Heaven’zz taking care of that.” 

Crowley felt himself go cold. “What?”

“We graciously donated some hellfire for their cause,” Beelzebub said, smug, as if this was an achievement. “I thought it wazz a bit harsh for Heaven, but we both know how cruel Above can be.” 

The worst part was that Crowley knew exactly how cruel Heaven can be. 

“Oh,  _ fuck _ .” 

“Lord?  _ Where are you going? _ ”

-

Aziraphale went nearly six thousand years without cursing. That streak was broken when he discovered where the Antichrist was. Then a second time when Shadwell backed him into the communication circle. 

The third time was today. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” He hissed under his breath as he looked up into a tower of hellfire. 

The Archangels had snuck up on him while content in his bookshop. It wasn’t his fault that he got caught up in those books - at least, he refuses to admit so. He wasn’t expecting them to approach from behind and loop a cloth over his mouth and wrists. 

Now, he was tied to a chair as Gabriel and the Archangels listed all the reasons why he deserved this. 

“Meddling with the Divine Plan, disobeying direct orders,” Gabriel listed. “And we found evidence of you consorting with a rogue demon. Don’t worry, Hell is sniffing out the problem as we speak.” He grinned, in a way that was obviously artificial and malicious. 

That last part made Aziraphale pause. “Oh.” 

“Yep!” Gabriel’s grin only grew wider with smugness. “Your little friend will be taken care of.” 

“You mean you still don’t know?”

That made Gabriel falter. “Know what?”

“ _ Oh. _ ” Aziraphale slowly smiled. “You  _ don’t _ know.” 

The Archangels glanced at each other. They were starting to feel uneasy. 

“I can assure you,” Aziraphale said between pearly teeth, “Someone will be very upset if I’m not back by tea time.” 

Any remaining bit of Gabriel’s ego vaporized into anger. “No one will be missing you, Aziraphale. Not any one down Below, nor up Above.” 

Before Aziraphale could retort, Gabriel snapped his fingers. The binds on Aziraphale’s wrists loosened, but he wasn’t free for long before Sandalphon and Uriel took him by the elbows. They dragged him towards the cyclone of hellfire, and for a moment, all of Aziraphale’s bravado melted away into real fear. He began to wonder if he had goaded too much, revealed too much. If Crowley could even find him in time - or if Hell held him captive just as Aziraphale was now. 

Uriel and Sandalphon tugged him harshly, nearly sending him face-first into the burning embers. The heat stung his skin, despite his blisters healing from the previous day, but the memory remained. As a last-ditch effort, Aziraphale released his wings and flapped them downwards. 

(At this moment, Gabriel, who was observing, frowned in disgust. The ends of Aziraphale’s wings were tipped in black, ash leftover from the hellsmoke. The Archangel felt his actions were further justified.)

It had enough momentum to send the three of them back a few feet, a much more comfortable distance from the flames. He flapped his wings frantically, trying to break free from the tight grips on his arms, but the surprise has worn off on the Archangels. They each summoned their own pairs of wings, much larger and stronger than a Principality’s, and Aziraphale was dragged forward once more. 

He was about to be thrown in among the flames when the large windows looking down upon the rest of Heaven shattered in a magnificent display. A large, black-winged figure stood among the shards of glass, wings stretching farther than any Archangel could imagine, with hellfire at their tips. Yellow, serpent eyes glared at each of them. 

Aziraphale, in his entire existence, had never seen Gabriel as anything but calm and collected, and on the semi-frequent occasion, holding back anger. But he had never, ever, seen him blatantly terrified. 

“You--You’re--” 

“But you--”

“It can’t be--” 

The Archangels were speechless. 

The King of Hell caught sight of the Principality, waiting for him. “There you are, angel. Not a feather out of place, I hope.” His word held weight as he glared at the huddled group of angels. 

“Not at all, dear.” Well, there were feathers out of place, but they had been out of place for years. 

“Good.” 

They didn’t need any words after that. Aziraphale met Crowley halfway, falling into an embrace that reassured the both of them that they were still here and very much alive. Crowley’s large wings circled them, and even though hellfire burned eternally on the feather’s edges, it didn’t dare do any harm to their master’s angel. 

“Let’s get out of here, angel,” Crowley said after a lingering moment. He sent a pointed glare to the Archangels. “If you dare come after him again, you won’t be facing the legions of Hell - you’ll be facing  _ me _ .” 

Then he flashed them a clear sight of Satan’s venomous fangs, taking great pleasure in watching them flinch back. Aziraphale gently tugged his attention away. 

“I believe they’ve had enough, darling.” 

“Alright, alright.” 

He couldn’t help looking over his shoulder as they left, but the Archangels were still frozen in place, suffering through the shock of witnessing Satan crash into Heaven to save an angel - a  _ Principality _ , no less. 

Crowley tugged Aziraphale’s hand and linked their fingers together. The angel smiled at him, a private, fond thing, and he’d done that a lot in the past few days. Things were changing, and for the better.

Crowley had a certainty in his chest that this was finally,  _ finally _ , over and done with. 

-

He wasn’t entirely wrong. 

As he had never explained everything to Hell, it took another exasperated visit from Beelzebub where they finally got the whole story - by walking in on their Master smooching a Cherub, or that’s what Beelzebub assumed the angel was. By appearance alone, what else could he be?

Beelzebub - a softer, more moldable version than other universes, one who had dealt with Crowley as their boss instead of the other way around - was fully prepared to take on the role as Emperor of Hell, as long as Crowley doesn’t keep changing his mind over what he wants. 

Heaven had gone completely silent after Crowley saved Aziraphale from a flaming death. They took this as a good sign. 

Freed from responsibilities and saving the world, they retired to an old cottage in South Downs. 

‘Retired’ was a loose word. Crowley decided that, as the most powerful being on Earth, he should be the new Protector of Earth, next to the Antichrist. But, now that the Earth is no longer a battleground for two opposing forces, there isn’t a whole lot to guard from. So, retired. 

Despite his grief becoming blurred memories, Crowley made more of an impact than he’ll ever truly know. He remembered his time in Heaven - it was written down more times than he cared to know; it was a tale told to the lesser demons who never saw his face - so he knew that all the connections he had in Heaven had Fallen after him. He never met Aziraphale, despite how far his influence reached, and Crowley was partially grateful for that. Aziraphale never had to go through the torture of Falling, and they still had the chance to meet. 

He might never know that his influence had already planted doubt in the angel, which made it possible for him to befriend the Principality of the Eastern Gate in the first place. 

But the other demons had old friends. Connections up Above that hurt to be severed, and hurt now, after Crowley opened old wounds. Beelzebub had a particular old friend in mind. All the demons had someone in mind. And, as the years go by, it starts to become harder to tell the difference between Heaven and Hell. 

But that’s the future. This is now.

-

Sunlight is filtered in through a thin curtain, highlighting all the dust particles in the air. The library should’ve really been dusted, but then Crowley gets to miss sights like this. 

Aziraphale is propped in his reading chair, a cup of tea growing cold on the stand beside him (although Crowley will warm it up when he remembers it’s there), his nose stuck in a book as he reads by the warm sun. Crowley was content to watch him where he lay sprawled across the couch, soaking up the warm rays coming from a different window. 

A lot of their days are like this. Occasionally, Crowley will go and yell at his garden, or they’ll try to cook some ancient recipe that neither of them remember correctly, or Crowley will clean while Aziraphale organized his books. Sometimes they’ll go out to someplace local, or take the long trip to the Ritz. They were invited last summer to the Device-Pulsifer Wedding, which despite the prediction of rain, kept clear and sunny until after everyone went home (Adam included). Occasionally, they’ll be invited out to Tadfield again just to have tea with the newlyweds and the Them. 

Otherwise, their days were lazy and spent soaking up each other’s company. Words didn’t need to be shared to be content. 

But today was different. Today, Crowley had something itching in his throat since their last visit to Tadfield. 

He always harbored a bit of guilt over Adam. Every time he saw Adam, Crowley could see a bright, young boy, and how he had suggested, once-upon-a-time, to kill this child. 

But that wasn’t it. Adam was  _ his  _ creation. In the darkness of night, Crowley could see the golden haired infant with bright blue eyes. He could imagine holding the child, could almost feel it, and that tempting voice in the back of his mind telling him,  _ keep it _ . 

And he had fucked up with a child that was supposed to be his. 

“Your thoughts are very loud,” Aziraphale interrupted his train of thought. 

Aziraphale placed a bookmark - an old, embroidered thing that Crowley gifted him a long time ago - and reached for his teacup. Crowley snapped his fingers on cue, heating the tea to the exact temperature the angel preferred. 

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said as he took a sip. “Now, what’s bugging you?”

Crowley murmured something incoherent into the couch cushion. 

“You know I can’t hear you.” 

Crowley propped his head up on his folded arms. “It’s stupid.” 

“Nothing you say is stupid, darling.” 

“What about when I said that ducks don’t have ears?”

Without missing a beat, Aziraphale said, “There’s exceptions to everything, dear. And you were drunk.” 

“Which proves you wrong.” 

Aziraphale let out the sight of a long-suffering parent. “You’re avoiding my question.” 

There was silence. He glanced over at Crowley to find the demon very focused on pulling a stray thread from the sofa. Aziraphale waited until his partner felt ready to speak. 

“I feel bad about Adam,” Crowley said after a few long moments. “Kinda fucked up in being a dad.” 

“I don’t think you were intended to be his dad,” Aziraphale replied. Then hastily added, “Of course you created him. But you were following orders. And the Great Plan said you wouldn’t be involved. So, it doesn’t seem like you were meant to be his father.” 

“I guess.” 

There was something else. Aziraphale watched Crowley fiddle with his gold ring - Crowley had slipped it off his pinky one night and had worn it ever since - as he struggled to put what else he wanted into words. 

“Do you think, perhaps,” Aziraphale said, with a slow smile. “You would like to try again?”

Crowley’s eyes lit up. So that was it. 

“Do it proper this time,” Crowley said, matching Aziraphale’s smile as he sat up. “Without just being a nanny.” 

“Don’t think we’ll need one,” Aziraphale agreed, almost breathless at the idea. “We have all the time in the world for one.” 

“Or two,” Crowley tacked on, his grin curling into a smirk. 

“Or more,” Aziraphale finished. 

They sat there, smiling dumbly at each other, until they had enough of the distance. Crowley stood and crossed the short gap between them until he could lean into the angel and meet his waiting lips. 

Yes, there’s plenty of time for all the children they could ever want - but right now, Crowley was content to curl up on Aziraphale’s lap and spend the rest of the afternoon talking about imaginary children in between loving kisses. 


End file.
